corresponded to his ability, none which allowed one to take his measure.
I shall never forget one curious incident that occurred early in our friendship.
It took place at a dinner at Dilke's when Harold Frederic sat beside Cecil Rhodes, at that time little known in England.
When most of the guests had departed, Dilke, Frederic and myself came together in our usual way to talk over things.
'Well, Dilke,' Frederic began, 'that was the first dull dinner I've ever been at in your house. Who was the bloody fool you put me next to? I talked to him on a dozen subjects but could get absolutely nothing out of him.'
Both Dilke and I laughed, and on our way home I told Frederic enough about Rhodes to make him modify his condemnation; but he always refused to believe in Rhodes's brains, and in time I came to think that Frederic was probably nearer right in his contemptuous estimate than Dilke or I in our appreciation.
All these years in the nineties Frederic was growing rapidly, but it was primarily the American in him which appealed to me from the first-a power of judging events and persons on their merits, heedless of position or apparent importance.
This was clearly shown to me by his attitude towards the Venezuelan question. Frederic had taught me to respect President Grover Cleveland who, he thought, was the ablest of American presidents in nearly a hundred years.
But Richard Olney was Secretary of State for foreign affairs and stood with him over the question of the boundaries of Venezuela. I am quite willing to admit that the English government was right in the attitude it took up. Lord Salisbury was about to impose demands on Venezuela by force of arms and Mr. Richard Olney plainly informed him that any such action would be a violation of the Monroe Doctrine. Lord Salisbury had no difficulty in pointing out that this was giving an extension to the Monroe Doctrine that Monroe had never imagined. Mr. Olney retorted that the United States considered itself the best judge of the meaning of the Monroe Doctrine, and almost like a thunder clap on this came a statement from Grover Cleveland, backing up Mr. Olney and plainly stating that armed intervention by England would be regarded as 'an unfriendly act' by the United States of America.
I was at that time owner and editor of the Saturday Review. I called on Harold Frederic and we both agreed that war was imminent. I wrote an article declaring that in case of war England would cease to exist as a power among the nations, and to run such a risk for a paltry boundary in Venezuela was so absurd as to be criminal stupidity. Lord Salisbury sent for me. He asked me to come and see him in Arlington Street, as he wanted to discuss the article with me. Of course I went next day, and found that he had protected himself by installing Lord Henry Manners, his secretary, almost between himself and me. He asked me how I had come to my belief in the enormous power of the United States in case of war.
'You don't seem to have a high opinion of Americans except as fighters,' he said, 'but you surely have an extravagant estimate of their fighting strength.
Our naval authorities think they could take Washington as they took it before and bombard New York into the bargain.'
'Goodness!' I cried. 'You frighten me for England when you talk like that.'
'Explain yourself,' he said. 'Why do you feel so convinced of the power of America?'
'First of all,' I said, 'consider one thing. In the Civil War there were only about sixteen millions of people on the side of the South. Yet, in less than two years, the Southern Navy was wiped out of existence and the Northern Navy was stronger than all the navies of the world put together. In less than two years the Federals had invented every improvement in naval warfare which exists up to this moment. They used rams, big guns, heavy armor plating, and vessels cut down to the water edge so as to show no target and even torpedoes.'
'Torpedoes!' exclaimed Lord Salisbury. 'Surely you are mistaken.'
'In '62 or '63,' I replied, 'a Southern battleship was blown up in Mobile harbor with a torpedo by Lieutenant Gushing. The Americans are crazy with the sense of the greatness of their country and the rapidity of its growth. In my opinion they would beat the world in arms today. They are the best organizers of labor in the world, and that is equivalent to being able to produce the best armies and navies.'
'You talk persuasively,' said Lord Salisbury. 'Your view is quite original, but I see your reasons.'
The talk went on for a little while, and he asked me when I could come down to Hatfield and have a longer conversation. The end of it was that I went to Hatfield and spoke with great frankness. I told him what I hoped for England was a close Union with her colonies, in order to pave the way for a confederation of all the English- speaking peoples, which might in the future, with the immense power of the United States, put an end to war. It seemed to me as easy to end war as to end dueling.
'A quarrel between England and America,' I added, 'is to me the worst thing that could be imagined, altogether horrible.'
Suddenly I remembered that I had heard Lord Salisbury described as an earnest Christian, so I went on:
'How any Christian could think of the possibility of war between these two peoples is beyond my comprehension. It would be a sin against humanity, for which there would be no forgiveness.'
Lord Salisbury suddenly turned away from me, put his hand under his desk, and drew out a sort of shelf, on which there was a glass, I think, of whiskey and soda, and took a drink. 'Please forgive me!' he then exclaimed. 'Would you like anything to drink?'
I laughed. 'No, thank you!'
He looked at me and answered gravely:
'I think in the main you are right: it would be a crime against humanity, against our hopes for man. It is a little difficult,' he added, after a pause, 'to let Mr. Olney have it all his own way; he is somewhat peremptory and unreasonable.'
'As the bigger man,' I said, 'I hope you will find reason enough in yourself far both.' He smiled at me, nodding his head the while.
The whole talk made me realize, as nothing had made me realize before, that my sympathies were with America, even against reason. Lord Salisbury's argument was reasonable; Dick Olney was in the wrong, and yet I was on the side of Dick Olney. I could not make out why till I got Harold Frederic down to stay with me and confided to him one evening, under pledge of secrecy, all that had taken place with Lord Salisbury, and found that we agreed on every point.
From thirty to forty or so Frederic grew as I grew, but owed even less than I did to extraneous influences, for at first I had been greatly influenced by reading foreign languages and so-called scholarship. It was Frederic, indeed, who first showed me how little books and book-learning can add to one's stature, and though George Moore was always there to enforce the lesson, I couldn't honestly say I would willingly divest myself of any fragment of knowledge: Moore's familiarity with modern French literature helped him to a saner view of literary art than he would otherwise have possessed. Moore was always a pleasant acquaintance and interesting companion, rather than friend: I hardly know why.
Early in the nineties, too, I came to know Lionel Johnson and young Crackanthorpe. I was drawn to them both from the outset: to Crackanthorpe for his gift of story-writing, and especially to Johnson, whose scholarship was worthy of his poetic endowment. Very early in our acquaintance Lionel won my heart by showing that he knew James Thomson and his poetry and was able to appreciate that rare genius. He said to me one day that Thomson's poem on Shelley was the purest piece of Shelleyism in the language.
Thomson's prose work had escaped him, but he knew every line of his poetry and treasured it in his heart of hearts. Poor, dear Lionel Johnson, whose whole literary life was even shorter than Thomson's, for he had not long passed thirty when the end came. As in the case of Thomson, they talked of drink; but I have an idea that whenever a ship is highly powered, it should have a strong hull to boot or it cannot last long. Like Thomson, poor Lionel Johnson had a big heart, as well as a first-rate brain, and the little body was not strong enough to house such forces for many years.
Lonely unto the Lone I go
Divine to the Divinity.
Whenever I think of Lionel Johnson and Crackanthorpe, I am constrained to think of all the poets and men of genius I knew in my London life and the miserable fate of many of them. I have told of Burton, Thomson, Dowson, Davidson, and Middleton; but there were many others like Henry Harland, some deservedly famous, some inheritors of unfulfilled renown.
